


Five times Constance slapped Aramis, and one time she didn't.

by Emmie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Character Death, Constance gets violent when she's worried, Constance is a bamf who doesn't stand for Aramis eyeing her up, Gen, Have you guessed I love Constance yet?, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:45:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmie/pseuds/Emmie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis always seems to bring trouble with him - in the form of slapping hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In my defence, it was a very nice dress.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never done a five times fic before, so this should be interesting. Let me know any situations you want to see Aramis get into that result in him getting slapped by Constance in the comments - I don't know if I'll be able to come up with enough ideas for all five, so help would be appreciated :)

Aramis had always viewed Constance as a respectable woman, in his eyes at least. He’d never had any romantic feelings towards her however and certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with her in that sense now - the situation between her and d’Artagnan would have made that awkward. Ah, young love. 

He was however a red-blooded male, and when she came to the garrison looking for d’Artagnan he could not help but appreciate her figure hugging dress. Apparently he wasn’t as discreet about observing those curves as he had thought.

Constance back-handed him hard across the face, leaving him sprawled, legs on the bench and back lying in the dirt. Porthos let out a bark of laughter before hiding his smile sheepishly behind another swig of wine as Constance scowled at him. Aramis could dig himself out of this one alone. Everyman for himself.

“Aramis! Stop looking at me like that, I am not a piece of meat, despite what you might think! Did you hear a word I just said?” Constance reprimanded him. Definitely not subtle observation then.

“I, you, uh, I mean - my apologies Madame Bonacieux. I was merely … entranced by your beautiful dress. Is it new?” Aramis fumbled with his words, not wanting to offend Constance, but also attempting to cover up his lapse in good ‘women-watching’ skills.

Constance huffed and raised an eyebrow, not convinced by his explanation. “Aramis I wore this dress the other week, I thought soldiers were supposed to be observant?” Constance taunted. 

Evidently that was not so today.

Aramis wasn’t quite sure how to respond, his usually calm and collected appearance becoming slightly frazzled. 

“No explanation then? I thought not. Give this to d’Artagnan when you see him would you?” Constance said stiffly as she handed him a letter addressed to Charles d’Artagnan and walked away.

Huh, Charles. Charlie! New nicknames for d’Artagnan started to develop in his head - d’Art was getting a little old.

“Smooth Aramis, very smooth. You’re lucky d’Artagnan wasn’t here, his punch would’ve hurt more than Constance’s slap.” Porthos said, certainly finding this funnier than Aramis was.

As Aramis rubbed his jaw, he shot a glare at Porthos.

“I’d imagine they’re probably on par with each other. However I have no desire to be slapped by Madame Bonacieux anytime again in the near future.” Aramis replied. Good God his jaw hurt, she definitely hadn’t held back. 

“Are you sure you have to imagine that?” Athos said dryly. “After all there was that one time where d’Artagnan- “ 

“Yeah, yeah, maybe I don’t have to imagine, no need to rub it in eh?" Aramis mumbled. "Pass me the wine Porthos, I can’t feel my jaw.” 

Porthos just sniggered, knowing Aramis he probably wouldn’t be waiting very long for another slap from Madame Bonacieux.


	2. More liquor than intended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and d’Artagnan end up more than a little sloshed, and somehow also end up on Constance's kitchen floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahey! Two chapters in one day - I'm fresh out of ideas now though, so leave some in the comments!

Aramis groaned as he opened his eyes and was immediately assaulted by a strong beam of sunlight. He felt a heavy weight draped over his legs and looked down to see d’Artagnan’s upper body stretched out comfortably over him, hugging his legs. 

Aramis rubbed his forehead, a headache making itself known. d’Artagnan and he were spread out over Madame Bonacieux’s kitchen floor. How he got there, and where Porthos and Athos were was a mystery he did not the energy to think about right now.

He attempted to manoeuvre himself out from underneath d’Artagnan, without waking the boy. Monsieur Bonacieux was out on business for the week. He remembered d’Artagnan telling him that and wanting to go and visit Constance at some stupid time very early in the morning, followed by attempts from him to persuade d’Art otherwise. That obviously did not have the desired effect and must have managed to make d’Artagnan buy him more liquor than he had intended to drink last night.

Just as Aramis rolled over and stood up wobbling, clutching onto the kitchen table for support, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs - that would be Constance.

The door swung open, revealing Constance humming a tune to herself, until she spotted a very hungover Aramis and a still unconscious d’Artagnan - lucky twit. Aramis raised his hands as one would to surrender until it registered with a very sleepy Constance that it was just her friends who had taken over her kitchen. A look of fury crossed her face as she stepped over d’Artagnan and swiftly gave Aramis a slap that sent him reeling.

“How dare you! Coming into a lady’s home when you knew she was alone in the house - I thought better of you Aramis!” Constance scolded. Aramis was getting a strange sense of deja vu, being slapped then shouted at by one Madame Bonacieux. 

“Constance, please don’t shout. My head already feels like it is going to explode without you shouting.” Aramis whispered, leaning into the table and kicking d’Artagnan awake simultaneously.

“Huh, wh't, wh't h’ppen’d.” d’Artagnan flung himself into a sitting position and pulled a knife out from who knows where, blindly swinging it around. Constance let out another squeak. 

“d’Artagnan! Put that away!” Constance yelped, scared by d’Artagnan’s knife waving as she quickly ducked behind Aramis.

“Woah d’Art! Put the knife down, we’re at Constance’s, we’re safe.” Aramis reassured him, hands out in front of him, d’Artagnans’ immediate violence concerning him. 

“What? Oh sorry C'nst'nce, I dn’t mean to sc’re you, I’m just a lil’ … disor’ntat’d.” an obviously hungover, and possibly still drunk, d’Artagnan replied.

“Well, what are you two doing here? How did you even GET in here?” Constance inquired. 

“Good question, not too sure.” Aramis said matter of factly, leaning against the table once again as he swayed a little.

“Oh for heavens sake, both of you get back to the garrison, you’re going to be late.” she rolled her eyes as both men headed for the door, muttering apologies, “d’Artagnan?” Constance called him back.

“Y-Yes?” d’Artagnan stuttered knowing whatever to come was not going to be good.

It wasn’t.

Constance slapped him up-side the head. Hard.

“Ow! What is wrong with you woman?” d’Artagnan clutched the back of his head, maybe she had hit him slightly harder than she had intended to.

“Well I slapped Aramis while you were out of it, so I thought it was only far if I did the same to you - don’t you think so?” Constance replied innocently, hands clasped behind her back as she swayed from side to side.

Aramis chuckled and bowed to Constance as he headed out the door, still slightly stunned from his slap. d’Artagnan followed meekly in a similar fashion. Ah, revenge was sweet. Now it was only Athos and Porthos who needed to experience Constance’s legendary slaps, he was working his way down the list - and it hadn’t even been on purpose so far!

Constance sighed as the men made their way out of her home, smiling even though her hand stung - it was definitely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean it. Ideas in the comments, now please - if you have any. Yes you, off you pop, no dilly-dallying.


	3. There is no such thing as simple when it comes to Musketeers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan let themselves in for more than they realise when they go on a 'simple' mission, leaving them hurt and making a worried Constance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: They almost get themselves killed on a mission and she slaps everyone but Athos, who is the one to calm her down.  
> I would love to see Aramis being like 'oh not again', Porthos taking back whatever he said about it not being that hard, and d'Artagnan attempting to play the puppy dog eyes while Athos gets yelled at and is fed up with these idiots he calls his friends.
> 
> Thanks for the prompt FrozenInSpace :)

It was supposed to be simple, that was what Captain Treville had said. A few days ride to an outlying village to check on the people there, and make sure there weren’t any problems. 

Well. There were problems.

Several close calls and one discovery of a network of criminals based in the village later, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan were ready to head home - leaving relieved village men behind them. 

The criminals had set up their network in the quiet village, knowing it was often overlooked and thus would be a safe place for them to meet frequently. The small population of villagers had been coerced into silence, and were ecstatic upon the musketeers’ arrival.

The four men hadn’t realised how large this network was, resulting in a fight that lasted for hours and left them exhausted and all injured in some way. 

Aramis had found himself backed against a wall with six men approaching him. He fought bravely, but even then it was still a three-against-one fight. One of the attackers took the opportunity to hit him over the head with the pommel of his sword - swiftly followed by Porthos gutting him like a fish, and then finishing off the other two in a similar manner. 

Porthos pulled Aramis behind an abandoned stall in the street and continued to fight back to back with d’Artagnan, their movements complimenting each other. Porthos had been helping to train him, and after this it had most definitely been worth the time. However it had become apparent d’Artagnan needed to work harder on his defence, as his opponent cut a large gash across his upper arm. d’Artagnan then proceeded to disarm the man and run him through, but began to sway a little. His resolve did not falter though, and he fought till the fight was done, protecting Aramis’ (still) unconscious body with his last breath. Porthos knew d’Artagnan was here to stay, and at this moment he was proud to be able to call such young and raw talent a brother-in-arms. 

As Athos worked his way through the dead bodies after the fight, he and Porthos shifting them onto to carts so they could be burned outside the village, he suddenly staggered as the adrenaline began to wear off. A shoot of pain ran through his ankle as he tried to take another step, and looked down to see it black and blue. At least it wasn’t broken. Athos hobbled other to the horses, a half-asleep and rather pale d’Artagnan already mounted on his horse, lifted on by Porthos no doubt, and an unusually silent Aramis hardly staying in his saddle. Aramis had come to by the time Athos had stumbled over to check on him after the fight was over, and although slightly disorientated, was more or less coherent. 

Porthos pulled himself up onto his horse, ignoring the aching in his shoulder. He was pretty sure he had dislocated it at some point during the fight, but had just shoved it back in, worried more about not dying at that moment than his shoulder. In hindsight, maybe that hadn't been the smartest thing to do. His shoulder felt like it was on fire now - best not to move it then.  


The rag-tag bunch of musketeers made their slow journey back to Paris, all in some degree of pain, and just wanting to get back to a warm bed and warm food. Aramis was usually their ‘physician’ but he wasn’t lucid enough to be treating (and certainly not sewing up) anyone. 

A few days later Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan rode back into the garrison, all pale now, and looking considerably worse for wear. As soon as they entered a general hubbub broke out across the men, many lending them helping hands to get them down from their horses, others taking the horses to the stables and one calling for the Captain. 

As Treville made his way down the stairs he caught sight of his four best men only just staying on their feet. He immediately went into action, ordering men to prepare a room for the four and to take them there. It didn’t look like they were going to remain standing for much longer. 

As they limped, hobbled, and were carried (this was Athos, seemed his ankle was more than twisted) up to the room, they knew that they would be well looked after, and fell into the darkness they had all been resisting for the past week.  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Athos awoke to the sound of a woman ranting. Constance was here then. 

“Have you any idea how worried I was? You came back a week later than expected, looking like you’ve been dragged through bushes backwards - and then you tell me you had it under CONTROL!” Constance paused for a breath here, breathing heavily in-between her tirade.

“Constance, please you’re hurting my head.” Aramis begged, in a desperate attempt to stop her from shouting, his already pounding head now feeling ready to burst. 

Constance frowned, but ceased her shouting, settling for swatting Aramis hard on his knee, one of the only places he wasn’t hurt. 

“What did I do this time?” Aramis hissed, clutching his leg. 

“You nearly got yourself killed! What if you hadn’t woken up from that hit?” Constance was beginning to rant again, and as any wise man would, Aramis stopped talking.

Porthos was not a wise man.

“Aw, I never knew you cared so much about us!” Porthos said teasingly from his bed on the other side of Constance. 

Athos just laid there, eyes still shut, trying not to smirk. Porthos was in for it now.

Constance spun around and slapped Porthos right across his cheek, d’Artagnan winced at the sound the blow made.

“You don’t have a head injury, so don’t think I won’t slap you.” Constance replied, wagging her finger in his direction - not that Porthos saw this, his eyes were smarting from the blow as he turned to face the mattress.

“I, uh, wow.” Porthos stuttered, “That was certainly … quite a hit.” He was struggling to string a sentence together, which made Constance look inherently pleased with herself. 

“Something to say, Porthos?” she asked smugly, grinning to herself.

“Uh, no, um, ma’am. Nothing at all.” Porthos replied, collapsing onto his bed and flinging his arm over his face to hide his quickly reddening cheek. 

“Hmph. I don’t know how you can joke around when Athos is still out cold. What if he doesn’t ever wake up, what if he loses his foot, you heard what the physician said.” Constance was getting worked up again.

Wait, his foot? It was just sprained. Athos tried to wiggle his toes, this sent a lightening bolt of pain up his leg and he groaned aloud. Definitely worse than sprained. He vaguely heard cries of relief and worry in the background, but they were all muffled underneath the burning pain that was his leg. 

Athos slowly cracked his eyes open, to see Constance smoothing his hair, and a bedraggled Aramis peeling back bandages on his lower leg. 

“Shh, shh, you’re going to be ok Athos, just keep awake for me. Athos? Look at me Athos.” Constance soothed him, trying to distract him from his mangled leg.

It looked like he must’ve caught it in something sharp when he fell on it because there were three long gashes, stretching from toe to knee along his left leg. And they hurt.

“I don’t suppose you three left any wine for me did you?” Athos joked, trying not to let Constance see he was hurt. He didn't want to scare her any more than she most likely already was. 

“Of course we did. We wouldn’t want a sober Athos on our hands now would we?” Porthos replied. He was trying to keep the conversation light just as Athos was, following the reason why he was acting so chipper. 

“Oh stop acting so tough you two, I’m not stupid.” Constance said indignantly, not standing for them trying to spare her feelings.

“Well, look on the bright side Athos,” d’Artagnan began, as Aramis placed fresh bandages on his leg, “At least these injuries will scar - you’ll finally have something to impress the ladies with.” Athos held back an uncharacteristic snigger at d’Artagnans’ oh-so subtle way of telling him he needed to get laid. This was not an uncommon statement from the young man, once Athos had revealed he had no feelings for his wife turned murderess.

However the one lady in the room was not so impressed with d’Artagnans’ conclusion, and wheeled round to glare at the man hovering by the end of Porthos’ bed, who had just realised his mistake and had raised his hands in the universal sign of ‘I mean no harm’. d’Artagnan put on his best innocent puppy-eyed face, in the faint hope Constance would take pity on him.

Unfortunately for d’Artagnan, Constance had developed an immunity to this face, and continued to back-hand him across the face, fury in her eyes.

Porthos buried his face in his pillow - this would not go well.

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary that hurt Constance!” d’Artagnan cried as he continued to swear profusely and sit on the end of Porthos’ bed, the man in said bed doing his best to contain his laughter and avoid being slapped once again. 

“This is not a laughing matter d’Artagnan. He is badly hurt and YOU are making jokes at his expense. How would you like - “ Constance was about to begin another rant, and Athos wasn’t sure Aramis’ head would take much more shouting.

“Constance, please.” Athos interrupted. “d’Artagnan was only joking, it is how we handle being hurt - with a sense of humour. If we didn’t we would be miserable every other day, getting hurt in our line of work is a given after all.” Constance huffed, but before she could interrupt again Athos continued, “Constance, it’s late and I don’t want you walking home in the dark. You need a good nights sleep, and you look exhausted. The same goes for us.” Athos spared a glance to a still slightly wobbly Aramis who had made his way over to his bed.

“I suppose you’re right. I’ll leave you in peace. But if I come back tomorrow and any of you have so much as stepped a foot out of this room -“ Constance warned.

“You’ll skin us and eat us for dinner?” Aramis said jokingly.

“Hm. Something like that. Goodnight boys.” Constance exited the room, leaving the men alone.

“Good to see you awake again ‘Thos.” d’Artagnan said fondly as he made his way back to his own bed, arm in a sling. 

“Yeah, you had us all worried there for a while.” Porthos added.

“And we certainly missed your ‘Constance-calming’ skills. How do you do it?” Aramis asked, avoiding d’Artagnans’ glare at his new found phrase.

“Why would I tell you all that? You’d never get slapped again.” Athos replied.

“That would be the point in telling us.” Porthos pointed out. “I take back anything I’ve ever said about you being pathetic Aramis. That woman slaps harder than any other woman I’ve met!”

“Yes, I’m sure you have a very wide range of slaps to compare it to, if you catch my drift…” Aramis wiggled an eyebrow to punctuate this sentence, sending d’Artagnan and he into a childish fit of laughter, and Athos and Porthos rolling their eyes.

Constance’s slaps surely could not be beaten, and the four men fell asleep with smiles on their faces, knowing Constance only slapped those she loved.


	4. It isn't cheating if you don't get caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd finish and I will. Eventually. Sorry for the wait.

Porthos wasn’t entirely sure how he had got into this mess, running from several angry drunken men with d’Artagnan and Aramis by his side. They had left Athos to brood over a drink, as per usual, so he had been spared the commotion. 

‘It was only a friendly card game’ Porthos thought. It was supposed to be a bit of fun, and give him a chance to test d’Artagnans’ skill at poker. Evidently it was rather high, a factor that Porthos had not taken into account. Why would a farm boy from Gascony ever have the need to know how to play poker? Let alone cheat at it?

— 

d’Artagnan hadn’t told Aramis or Porthos of his skill at card games, or his skill at cheating. What harm could it do to give them a little surprise? More than he had anticipated, clearly. In the cold days of winter, where the daylight wouldn’t last long, d’Artagnans’ father had taught him every card game under the sun - or moon as it were. He’d gotten rather good at one point, and even though he was a little out of practice he had thought he might at least try to give Porthos and Aramis a run for their money. 

—

Aramis had to hand it to the boy, he certainly had an aptitude for poker, although he was clearly practised. He had realised around halfway through the game of poker that d’Artagnan knew what he was doing, and that he was taking certain measure to ensure his victory. He had that mischievous gleam in his eyes. I guess you could say it isn’t cheating if you don’t get caught, but he wasn’t going to tell Porthos that. The look on his face would be hilarious when he found out,

However Aramis did not think the look on Porthos’ face when he figured out why d’Artagnan was taking all his coin with ease was worth being chased by several angry, drunken men, all of whom were out for their blood. They seemed to have some harboured dislike for Musketeers, and when they’d recognised the group of three they proceeded to chase them down the streets of Paris until the three of them managed to hide in a cubby hole at the side of the street. he knew they should’ve just stayed at the garrison. 

—-

“I told you we should’ve stayed low until this all blew over, but no, no one ever listens little old Aramis - ”, a gloved hand clamped over Aramis’ mouth, accompanied by Porthos’ trademark glower.

“Aramis. Shut the hell up.” 

Aramis slumped against the cold and damp brick wall, and resigned himself to the spending the next few hours in a Parisian gutter.

“Now we've got some time to ourselves I think the three of us need to have a little chat, don’t you?” said Porthos.

“Why did you even phrase that as a question?” replied d’Artagnan, “I’m pretty sure we’ll be ‘having a chat’ whether I like it or not. You’re just jealous. And out-of-pocket.”

Porthos’ glower returned.

d’Artagnan slumped down besides Aramis, looking like a kicked puppy, and prepared himself for the inevitable lecture to come.

—

Several hours and an agreement for a rematch later, the three bitterly cold men emerged from the gutter and trudged back to the garrison, d’Artagnan stopping off at Constance’s on the way to tell her he’d be spending the night away. 

Except it didn’t quite happen like that because nothing ever can go to plan, can it? d’Artagnan thought to himself.

As the three approached the door they could hear a conversation going on between a man and woman, judging by their vocal pitches. But Monsieur Bonacieux was out of town on business and wasn’t due back for at least a week. So who else was in the house?

The door swung open to reveal harried and rumpled Athos, running his hand through his hair and his hat nowhere to be seen. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Athos spat out once he laid eyes on them.

“I thought you said he’d still be at the pub?” hissed d’Artagnan to Aramis.

“I said probably, he’d probably still be at the pub.” Aramis muttered back.

“What on earth happened to you three? Athos came here an hour ago and said he couldn’t find you anywhere! He was worried sick about you.” Constance came out of the door a whirlwind of emotions, and the three ‘manly’ musketeers merely stood there in silence, terrified to say even a word.

Athos blanched at that. “I would not say I was worried sick, a tad concerned perhaps when you ran out of the pub with angry drunks on your heels.”

“Keep telling yourself that Athos.” Constance replied, dismissing him with a wave. “Get inside, all of you. You look frozen to the bone.” She made her way back into the house, not leaving any room for an argument. d’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders at the others and followed her inside.

Sitting down at the table the men exchanged the traditional ‘we-are-in-so-much-trouble’ look as was customary when they’d caused a stir, and Constance and Athos stood in front of them arms folded.

“Now,” Athos sighed, dragging his hand over his face, “would one of you like to explain where you disappeared to?”

Dead silence.

“Let me rephrase that - where. have. you. been.” Athos repeated.

Seeing no one else was going to say anything, Porthos tried to diffuse the situation. 

“Nowhere special. You really didn’t miss out on much, wasn’t even that fun. In fact - ” 

“Porthos.” Athos warned.

“Shut up?”

“Please.”

“Honestly it wasn’t that bad, we just hid out in an alley for a bit to make sure we didn’t bump into those drunks again.” Aramis calmly told the Constance and Athos. “We’re fine, albeit a little chilly.”

“Fine? You think what just happened was fine?” Constance said, her face stony.

Aramis’ gulp could’ve been heard for miles.

Aramis attempted to save the situation. “Well not fine, but it could’ve been worse. I mean no one got stabbed, slashed, gutted, or mauled so I think we did ok.”

Constance slapped him without hesitation, the noise echoing in the silent room.

“It is not ‘ok’, it is terrifying.” Constance told him, “Every time you disappear I have to wait and see if you’re still bloody alive, and it is terrifying.” 

The four musketeers all looked baffled, as Constance stared at them in disbelief.

“I care about you all, you are in my life and here to stay. And god dammit I will not be attending your funerals in the near future.” She stomped her foot, trying not to cry. And failing.

“I-I had no idea you felt like that.” Aramis stuttered.

“Well why else would I slap you all the time you big dweeb!” she exclaimed.

“We’re sorry Constance, we didn’t mean to scare you, honest.” d’Artagnan cut in, hugging her as she collapsed into sobs.

“We’ll try not to do it again. I mean we can’t promise anything - occupational hazard and all.” Aramis added, hugging her round the waist.

Athos came to stand by her side and envelop the three. He wasn’t good with words but his actions said enough.

“I knew you loved us really.” Porthos said smugly, dropping a friendly kiss onto her temple and joining in the giant hug. 

Constance sighed a breath of relief as they all stayed where they were for a while, content as they were.

“Hey guys? Why is there a playing card on the floor?” Constance asked.

Aramis and d’Artagnan turned to glare at Porthos.

“Why you little - ” d’Artagnan broke from the hug and Porthos ran.

“It isn’t cheating if you don’t get caught, eh?” Aramis shouted after the two, clapping hands together.

“Shut up Aramis!”


	5. He’s ill Constance, really ill.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan’s stomach turned as his knees buckled. Then darkness. Darkness overpowered his senses and he crumpled to floor, letting out a whimper no one would hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some French speech in here but I'm sure a google search will tell you the translation if you really don't know what it says. I am currently translating it all into French, which I may or may not post. We'll see. Enjoy!

It wasn’t going to be a good day, d’Artagnan knew that as soon as he woke up. He had a pounding headache, and he couldn't smell the usual breakfast Constance would be sure to be cooking. He could however hear the thumping footsteps of people outside and their morning greetings. It was all too loud - each new sound sent a wave of pain through his head. Rolling over he shoved away the threadbare blanket and placed his feet on the icy stone floor, the pervading cold his wake up call. d’Artagnan rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples, trying to find the willpower to stand up. 

Running a hand through his unruly mop of hair he clumsily stumbled to his feet, grabbing onto his table to steady himself as spots danced before his eyes. d’Artagnan’s stomach turned as his knees buckled. Then darkness. Darkness overpowered his senses and he crumpled to floor, letting out a whimper no one would hear. 

—-

“d’Artagnan? Are you in here? Come on, get up you lazy sod we’ve been looking for you everywhere!” d’Artagnan blearily opened his eyes to the sound of Porthos pounding on his door. 

“Yes I’m,” d’Artagnan broke his sentence in half with a phlegmy cough, “in here.” He was still on the floor, and the cold had spread through his bones while he was unconscious, he couldn’t stop shivering.

“‘d’Art?” Porthos was still on the other side of the damned door, and Aramis hardly had the energy to keep his eyes open, let alone get up to open the door.

“Just come in Porthos.” d’Artagnan groaned, shifting so he was leaning against the side of his bed. His eyes flickered shut, god he was exhausted. 

Next thing he knew he blinked his eyes open to Porthos inches from his face, his brows furrowed in concern. d’Artagnan jerked backwards at his sudden appearance.

“Woah, calm down d’Art, you’re alright.” Porthos soothed d’Artagnan, placing his hand on d’Artagnan’s burning forehead, “You look awful, come on let’s get you back into bed.” 

He slung d’Artagnan’s arm over his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. The boy was freezing, and his face was a sickly grey colour. Porthos knew he’d probably have to call in Aramis to tend to him as this was more than the simple cold d’Artagnan had assured them it was last night.

“Hey, hey, hey, look at me d’Art. d’Artagnan look at me.” Porthos grasped d’Artagnan’s chin gently between his fingers, trying to get some form of response from him.

“I’m fine.” d’Artagnan responded croakily, batting away Porthos’ hand as he lay him down on the bed. “Really Porthos, it’s just a - ” he broke off into a coughing fit again, face going red as he struggled to breathe. 

“Mon dieu mon ami!” Porthos exclaimed, rubbing d’Artagnan’s back as he coughed up an unpleasant looking gloop. Porthos grabbed a nearby bowl and wrapped d’Artagnan’s hands around it. “I’m going to be back in just a minute d’Art, stay alive for sixty seconds?” d’Artagnan laughed as much as he could in his current state and gave a grunt of affirmation.

“Bon, un moment d’Artagnan.” Porthos left the room and ran down the stairs frantically searching for Constance. 

“Mademoiselle Bonacieux!” Porthos shouted, “Constance? Constance!”

“Porthos? What on earth are you so wound up about? In fact what are you even doing here?” Constance came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

“It’s d’Artagnan, he’s ill Constance, really ill. I need you to go to the garrison and get Aramis, quickly.” Porthos replied, then swiftly turning and running back up the stairs to d’Artagnan’s room.

Constance ran through the house and out the front door. She borrowed her neighbours horse and galloped to the garrison with worse case scenarios running through her head. What if d’Artagnan was dying? What if she didn’t get Aramis there in time? Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of losing her precious Gascon. 

After what seemed an eternity she saw the garrison in the distance, the sound of soldiers talking and swords clashing filled the air as she leapt off the horse, straight towards the man she knew would be able to help.

“Aramis! Aramis please hurry, it’s d’Artagnan - he’s sick.” Constance skidded to a stop next to the healer, grabbing his upper arm and turning him to face her. 

“Sick?” replied Aramis, “Constance I know you care for him but there’s not much I can do for a simple cold.” He tried to placate her, placing his hand on her forearm comfortingly, she did seem awfully worried. However he knew that d’Artagnan really only had a bad cold; he saw him last night.

Constance wrenched her arm out of his grip and slapped him hard across the cheek, the sound echoing throughout the garrison. 

“Porthos is with him, he sent me to get you.” Constance knew there wasn’t time to scold, and that if Aramis knew it was Porthos who was worried then something was truly wrong.

“Nom d'un chien,” Aramis swore, “je suis désolé. We should go.”

Aramis ignored his stinging cheek in favour of hugging Constance, who relaxed in his arms, and shouting for one of the stable boys to saddle his horse. If the normally laid-back Porthos felt Aramis needed to be there then it couldn’t be good.

“Constance?” Aramis let go of the woman so she could gracefully swing onto what must be a borrowed horse, “He’s a strong lad, he’ll be fine.” Sincerity filled his wide eyes as he nodded at her, mounting his own horse.

“Of course he will Aramis.” Constance said confidently, “He couldn’t be in better care with you to look after him.” She took a deep, calming, breath as they quickly rode through the streets of Paris.

“Oh, and Aramis? Sorry about the - ” she gestured towards his cheek.

Aramis winked at her in reply. “It’s fine Constance, we both know you enjoy it.”

He sped up his pace and rode off, not looking back to see Constance turn a vibrant shade of pink.

“Oh yeah,” she muttered to herself, “he definitely deserved it.”


	6. This was his fault.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was sweating, tossing, turning, and as white as a sheet. Aramis sunk to the floor and buried his face in his hands. He knew exactly what was plaguing d’Artagnan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final instalment, enjoy! Also, as planned but also as requested, this is a continuation of the last chapter.
> 
> AN: More than a year later it has only just come to my attention that there is no tag to warn readers of the Major Character Death within this chapter. This has been fixed now but I can only apologise to those it may have blindsided and/or negatively affected. It is not graphic or gory however it is present all the same - if this is something you do not wish to read please do not continue to read this story.

Constance and Aramis spent the rest of the short journey in silence, both more preoccupied with their thoughts than with making conversation. As they cantered along the streets, through the crowds of people, they knew d’Artagnan could be slipping away from them. Neither of the two were prepared to let that happen.

Coming to an abrupt halt outside Constance’s home they leapt off their horses, Constance returning hers to her neighbour, and Aramis leaving his steed outside and dashing into Constance’s home.

“Porthos!?” Aramis yelled as he ran up the stairs.

“Aramis?” Porthos’ head stuck out of a doorway, his eyes laced with fear. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you. d’Artagnan is coughing up blood, I don’t know what to do Aramis…” Porthos trailed off, his voice cracking. He couldn’t bear to lose the man he considered his brother.

Aramis didn’t say anything, just clasped the other man’s shoulder with one of his own calloused hands, grabbed his chin tenderly with the other, and turned Porthos’ head so they were looking at each other directly in the eyes. Aramis gave a solid nod and walked past Porthos to where d’Artagnan lay.

He was sweating, tossing, turning, and as white as a sheet. Aramis slid to his knees in panic and placed the back of his hand on d’Artagnans’ forehead. Not only could he feel the heat from the young man he could also feel the trembling. Spotting the bowl, containing what could only be blood d’Artagnan had coughed up, Aramis sunk to the floor and buried his face in his hands. He knew exactly what was plaguing d’Artagnan. A physician friend of his had been talking cases of it rising in the city.

“Constance,” Aramis called defeatedly, “Constance I need you in here.” He looked over his shoulder and saw Porthos leaning dejectedly against the wall in the hallway.

The soft fall of Constance’s feet announced her arrival as Aramis turned back to d’Artagnan, running his hand through the Gascon’s long hair in an attempt to calm him.

“What do you need.” Constance said, an air of determinedness surrounding her.

“I need to know anything unusual about d’Artagnans’ behaviour over the last few days. Signs of illness, small or large I need to know even if you think it might be inconsequential.” Aramis replied quickly. His voice hardened as he slipped into his professional, calmer, alter ego while he broke down inside.

“Je, je ne sais pas,” said Constance stutteringly, “I, uh, the cough - he’s had that weeks. He said he’d seen a physician, he said it was nothing!” she paused and took a deep breath. “Constance, please think.” Porthos interjected, now inside the room, eyes wide with desperation.

She raised her hands to start rubbing her temples and begun pacing the room. Her eyes fluttered closed as she tried to think of anything that could be of any value to Aramis. Meanwhile Porthos had moved to d’Artagnans’ other side and was comfortingly rubbing his arm as he continued to shake.

The tense silence was broken by Constance snapping her fingers. “He’s been eating less these past few weeks, only eating when I force him to - even then not much.”

Aramis and Porthos shared loaded glance. d’Artagnan had not been eating much at the garrison either. They had put it down to him either overeating at home, or simply being so busy being his usual energetic self that he forgot; a regular occurrence.

“He’s been sleeping more,” Constance continued, and Aramis’ face fell, “going to bed sooner, waking up later, waking up sweaty actually. ” Another dagger plunged itself into Aramis’ chest and he grabbed his crucifix.

“Constance, has he said anything about his chest … hurting?” Aramis asked, praying to God he was wrong, that he was jumping to conclusions.

Constance faltered. “Yes. Yes, he did. Oh Aramis I thought it was his bullet wound, he said it was his bullet wound I didn’t even think to check, I thought I was leaving well enough alone! What does that mean Aramis?”

He didn’t reply.

“Aramis?” Porthos questioned, his voice shaking.

Aramis closed his eyes, steeling himself for what was about to happen. He knew once he said it aloud he couldn’t take it back.

“It means, that d’Artagnan is extremely ill.” Aramis paused, “It means, that we will be lucky if he makes through the night. Even then there is no guarantee he will survive much longer than that.”

Swiftly Aramis got to his feet and fled the room, the cries of Constance echoing behind him. He ran outside as his breathing quickened, his heart speed up, and the world felt like it was closing in on him. He sunk to his knees not for the first time that day, and let out an anguished howl. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he dug his fingers into the loose dirt in an attempt to ground himself. He had no idea how long he sat there, his world crumbling around him.

Suddenly he was pulled into an embrace, his head was pulled into the shoulder of the woman, a hand stroking his hair when he didn’t resist, as his sobs continued. This was his fault. He was the unofficial physician for their band of four, soon to be three. He should have noticed, he could have saved d’Artagnan.

This was his fault. The young man, the boy, inside was going to die because of him. This was his fault. _This was his fault._ This was his fault. _**This was his fault.**_

That one thought spiralled through his mind, a cacophony of voices telling him he was a failure. _Aramis._ This was his fault. _Aramis please don’t lose yourself._ All his fault. _We need you._ d’Artagnan was going to die. _I need you._ Because of his own incompetence. _Aramis do not make me slap you._

I cannot lose him.

_I cannot lose you too._

———————-

Aramis woke up on a wooden chair in Constance’s kitchen. His neck was stiff and as he stretched he forgot why he was here. As he remembered he froze, hoping d’Artagnan was still amongst the living.

“I called that physician friend of yours after you collapsed. He said d’Artagnan had tuberculosis. He said that it was untreatable and d’Artagnan doesn’t have long left.” Athos was here.

Aramis hung his head in shame as he heard a bottle being pushed across the table to him.

“It is not your fault Aramis.” Athos said in a hushed tone, placing a a placating arm on Aramis’ own. “There is nothing you could have done.”

“I should have noticed.” Aramis whispered, hand gripping the bottle tightly, his voice cracking. “I should done something, anything.”

“But you can’t now. The past is in the past my brother, and we must make the most of the time we have left with our dear d’Artagnan.” Athos replied, prying the wine out of his death grip and somehow being calm among the looming threat of imminent death.

Athos stood up and moved beside Aramis, one hand on the back of his chair as he knelt down before Aramis as one would do before a small child. Peering up into Aramis’ eyes Athos spoke.

“You are in no way responsible for this Aramis. It is just the way things were meant to be.”

Aramis quickly turned cold. Why did it have to be like this? Whose grand master plan was it to have this happen? This wasn’t something they could fight, it wasn’t a man with a sword, or a plan to kill the monarch. It was something far, far worse. If this was meant to happen then it was God’s will.

Right now, Aramis hated God.

“Why.” Aramis stated harshly. “Why him? What did he ever do to deserve this? Why do bad things happen to good people?” His voice raised in volume with each sentence.

He was fully aware of how childish he was being but couldn't care less. Whosever fault this was d’Artagnan had done nothing, absolutely nothing, to have earnt this pain.

“Oh Aramis,” Athos responded, “Aramis there is no good or bad. It’s not a clean split. ‘Good’ people do bad things and ‘bad’ people do good things. And sometimes bad things happen to ‘good’ people and good things happen to ‘bad’ people. There is no black and white and no sense of moral justice that the universe will follow. Things happen to people. It’s how life is. But it is not about how we get knocked down, Aramis, and it’s not about how many people we lose - or how many people we love. It’s about how we get back up.”

“How do I get back up after this Athos? d’Artagnan is going to die and I can’t change that. We’re going to lose him, I’m going to lose him.” Aramis stuttered, his voice breaking throughout his sentence. “I’m going to lose my little brother.”

Athos pulled him into a crushing embrace, surrounding him and protecting him. “Mon petit frère. We will lose one, but he would not want us to stop our lives because of it. We will carry on and fight in his name.” Athos explained, “He won’t ever leave us. Not fully.”

Porthos appeared in the doorway, his eyes red and puffy, and walked over to join in the hug.

As the three broke free of each other they all went upstairs to join Constance and keep a vigil by d’Artagnans’ bedside, staying with him, talking to him, and holding him until he passed.

———————-

A few days later d’Artagnans’ funeral was held. All the musketeers were present, and countless people came by later that day to pay their respects to the fallen man.

At a bar that evening, where the three remaining men and Constance were drinking themselves into a stupor, an agreement was made.

“For d’Artagnan.” Athos toasted. “Forever in our hearts, forever in our memories. He lives on through us, and we fight for him.”

“For d’Artagnan!” The four chorused, determined to make a difference in his name.

———————-

“You didn’t slap me.” Aramis slurred to Constance as she left the room.

“Of course I didn’t slap you,” she replied, going to pull the door to, “you wouldn’t have felt it.”

“Knew you loved me really.” “

Yeah. Yeah I do little brother. I do.”

———————-

**Several Years Later.**

“Mama! Mama! Look what I made!” A young boy shouted, running across a field towards his mother, coming home from his Uncle’s neighbouring farm.

“Hello my darling what have you got there?” The woman asked, picking up her son and holding him on her hip. A small wooden figurine was waved in her face as the young boy giggled happily.

“It’s Papa!” he replied excitedly, “Uncle Porthos helped me - he said I’m going to grow up to be a magnifigent swordsman, just like him!”

“I think you mean magnificent sweetie. Now let me see that. Aha! It does look a lot like your Papa, right down to the hat.” she said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“Mama?” the boy asked, his eyes wide and puppy like, identical to his Father’s, “Mama does Papa love me even though he never met me?”

The woman’s eyes softened, and her face melted into a smile.

“He loves you very much my dear Charlie, and he would be very, very proud of you.”

Constance knew every word she said was the truth, the little boy before her was the spitting image of his father, in personality and looks. His skin was tanned as they had moved to Gascony from Paris soon after Constance knew she was pregnant; posing as a widow to avoid questions. He had the same stubborn streak as his father, the same grin, the same eyes, and the same natural sword skill. His three Uncle’s had been more than pleased about the latter.

Constance also knew that her lot in life wasn’t fair, that she’d had it rough. But at the end of the day the little ray of sunshine beaming up at her made it all worth it. Every bit of pain and every loss. She would always love and yearn for d’Artagnan, but until she joined him, their child made this unfair world far more bearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. 
> 
> Also d'Artagnan is supposed to have TB, incase you were wondering. And this story has no specific time slot in conjunction with the TV show, but Constance's husband is dead because I don't like him. 
> 
> Leave a comment and/or kudos to tell me what you think!


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